Larry Weismann is
​a published poet and an architect working in Tel Aviv.

Impressions of Lior Averbuch’s Paintings,
​ by Larry Weismann.
Awake in the dream again, gasping for light, the air itself black.
Some trees, a building, cobblestones. Faint scratches of brightness, letters, ancient marks.
The trees are borders, witnesses, silent howls of flame.
Something that prefigures music – a stratum of sound endlessly stretched – a primal chord undistinguishable from the seamless ground and sky.
A slash, a wound, a portal of light.
A fetal heartbeat in a cubicle of skin. Serum seeping through a web of tubular life.
In this place where illumination is rare, each flicker has the severity of truth.
You leaf through the blueprints, a plan for the world, and find it is the world itself, devoid of time, in an ever-present state of being born.
You’ve been abducted into the house of learning, where matter is meaning, and horror and beauty do not dwell apart.